State of Emergency
by uchiha.s
Summary: Oneshot, AU. Set in the universe of my old Tomione fic, "The Scientist." Tom cannot believe he has been blackmailed into attending the department's Halloween party. Things only go south when he runs into his most brilliant student.


State of Emergency

Of all the places to hold a mandated Halloween party, the Three Broomsticks had to be the most obvious and, therefore, the most embarrassing. Had Dumbledore not threatened Tom with finding a way to enforce office hour rules on him, Tom would absolutely not be here now, standing in front of the Three Broomsticks, wearing his usual suit and tie. However, he was slightly mollified by the prospect of Dumbledore owing him - it could be used at a later time, when it suited Tom - and so, he stepped inside after straightening his favorite hunter green tie and smoothing his gleaming hair.

The Three Broomsticks was packed as usual with clusters of patrons watching sports on the screens above the bar; Tom bypassed them, noting that the Death Eaters were, to his disgust, losing, and continued through the narrow hallway to the back of the bar. The Philosophy and Law department of Hogwarts had rented out one of the back rooms, and as he rounded the dark cramped hall he could already hear the sounds of his colleagues becoming shamefully drunk.

His sense of disgust, ready to be unleashed, was not to go to waste-as he entered the overheated room, his eyes were assaulted with the sight of Dumbledore as a princess - abjectly horrifying in so many ways - and McGonagall and Sinistra dressed as...well, he was not entirely sure. McGonagall wore all black and a long black pointed hat on her head, with a gold necklace and a long piece of plastic spray-painted gold hanging from her necklace. Sinistra was dressed in all silver, with an oblong spray-painted papier mache gold hat on her head, with a gold piece sticking up from it. She looked like a religious symbol as rendered by a goat.

"Riddle, you made it," remarked Sinistra, looking quite flushed in the face. The silver onesie she wore did her post-menopausal figure no favors - _not that much could be done,_ Tom mused in horror as he realized he could clearly see the outline of her knickers.

"We're the pen and the sword," McGonagall explained loudly, noting how he looked upon Sinistra in horror. Surely undergarments were not meant to sit so high…? Tom finally found the strength to tear his eyes from Sinistra. McGonagall was looking at him with such utter disgust that had he been any other person he would have simply wet his pants and crawled out of the room. As it were, he was Tom Riddle, so he met her gaze levelly and arched his brows, not remotely cowed by her estimation of him. Sinistra wobbled away towards the punch bowl, leaving him alone with McGonagall.

"That is utterly the stupidest-"

"Do not insult my intelligence, Riddle. And what are you supposed to be, anyway? Oh, perhaps your own horrible self. Plenty scary," snarked McGonagall. Tom sniggered. Some woman - perhaps one of the secretaries; they were often hard-pressed to give up their pursuit of him - pressed a red plastic cup of punch into his hand, and he tightened his grip without acknowledging them.

"So Dumbledore blackmailed you into coming as well?"

"He will pay," McGonagall said comfortably. "Ah, it seems Lockhart has arrived-excuse me, I must abuse him," she said, pretending to accidentally bump into Lockhart, who had arrived entirely naked save for a fake fig-leaf attached to...well, he wasn't quite sure how it attached or what it was holding onto, and he saw no reason to ponder the matter further, lest he lose his lunch.

Bellatrix arrived, dressed rather predictably as a witch - albeit a relatively naked one. The only way to dodge her was to rope himself into a discussion with Dumbledore and a former student, Angelina Johnson, who at the very least was obscenely attractive even in frumpy suiting, but luckily for him had selected a rather short red and black spotted dress and wore springy antennae on her head. It was uncreative but the girl clearly understood that her legs were her best asset.

"Ah, Dr. Riddle, so good of you to grace us with your presence," greeted Dumbledore lightly. "Your costume is exceptional." Angelina snorted into her punch and avoided meeting his eyes as she hastily wiped her face with the heel of her hand.

"As is yours. It really suits you-perhaps you should wear dresses more often, Dumbledore," Tom said pleasantly, glancing at Angelina.

"One of my good friends is in your class this year," Angelina remarked now, looking desperate to find a possible common ground. Tom wondered why she was troubling him with this piece of information - unless her friend also had stellar legs, he was unlikely to recall her existence, much less her name. And even then… Now that he thought of it, though, he could hardly recall what the majority of his students even looked like...

"Is that so," he said dully, only playing along because Dumbledore was eyeing him.

"Her name is Hermione Granger, and-"

Now it was his turn to choke on his punch.

" _You're_ friends with _her?_ " Tom asked, then wondered if his tone gave away too much. He reflexively smoothed his hair. Dumbledore had already implied his interest in this particular student was inappropriate at best. Angelina arched her brows.

"Oh dear," she sighed, "I'd apologize but Hermione's been _that_ way as long as I've known her," said Angelina with a grin.

"You mean incapable of remaining silent for more than five minutes straight?" Tom shot back, thinking of how annoying - and yet delightful, in a way he wasn't ready to examine - the girl had been just that very same day in class.

Angelina's grin broadened.

"She's the smartest person I know," she said almost apologetically. Tom recognized this tactic - whether Angelina was conscious of it or not, she was trying to find a way to imply herself more like him. It was a move meant to bring them closer, meant to enamor him of her. He was meant to continue to laugh at Hermione with her, which would strengthen the bond between them. It would not work.

"Aside from myself, yes, perhaps," said Tom finally, as it was likely true. He took a long swig of his punch. Only the other night he had dreamt of Hermione Granger...he had not known _his_ brain was capable of such idiocy but with the many many thoughts he had, statistically speaking it was bound to happen sooner or later…

Angelina seemed perturbed - he wondered if it was bitter disappointment at her tactic crashing and burning. That was probably it. She excused herself and Tom watched her totter away in her heels.

"Well, I ought to let you continue your rounds," Dumbledore said now. "You've got so many left to go - you've so far only managed to offend me, Miss Johnson, Drs McGonagall and Sinistra, and Jennifer-"

"Who is Jennifer?" Tom pondered before he could stop himself. Dumbledore nodded subtly across the room. Tom followed his eyes to see, just as he had suspected, one of the secretaries, a short, dumpy blonde dressed in an ill-fitting angel costume, staring at him from across the room and hugging herself.

"She gave you the punch," explained Dumbledore.

"Ah."

Dumbledore left then, and Tom wondered how much longer he would have to stay. He glanced at his Ollivander watch and was filled with impatience. He was finally making some headway on that Crouch case - he didn't have time for nonsense such as parties.

Bellatrix hadn't yet spotted him, and he decided that the room was becoming crowded enough that he could slip out unnoticed before he tested his luck too much. He wended his way through the crowd, at one point getting close enough to Lockhart's fig leaf to rip it off - he resisted, as he disliked the idea of his hand being so very close to Lockhart's genitalia - and ducked out of the stuffy room.

The halls were blessedly cool in comparison, and he breathed a sigh of relief before fetching his wool coat and satchel from the coatstand positioned near the loos. The main area of the Three Broomsticks was even more packed now, most of its patrons dressed in increasingly embarrassing costumes.

He was nearly out the door when he heard a familiar voice.

" _Honestly,_ Ronald, it's like you've never read a book! Mary Ann Radcliffe was an important early femini-"

"You just wanted to wear an old-timey dress like you're an extra on _Masterpiece Theatre._ "

Hermione Granger, wearing a quite old-fashioned faded dress with voluminous skirts, had her hands on her hips as she shrilly lectured a lanky man with vivid hair dressed as one of the Aurors, though his lanky yet pot-bellied figure did not fill out the footballer uniform in quite the proper way. Even from his own vantage point, over the din of the crowd and the clamor of the music, he could hear Hermione quite clearly.

Mid-lecture, across the bar, their eyes met. Tom toyed with his options as he watched her process that he was there, seeing her in costume. On the one hand, she was always amusing and entertaining, and she seemed in especially high form tonight. On the other hand, she was an annoying law student and he had important things, such as his job, to do.

He watched her leave the red-head as she pushed her way through the crowd to get to him. Pressed closer by the throngs of patrons, Hermione looked up at him, craning her neck.

"You look absurd," he remarked by way of greeting. Part of him was exasperated for her - did she not understand that, as a single female in her twenties, she was required practically by law to wear something at least attractive, if not seductive? Men in the bar were giving her an impressive berth, as though by some sixth sense they knew that they were unlikely to get anything other than a long lecture on feminism from her.

"You look evil," she retorted. "Like the villain in a romantic comedy."

"You've had a drink," he observed. She flushed.

"What of it," she countered haughtily.

They were pressed too close. If he moved forward at all they would be pressed against each other. _Oh, really,_ he thought at himself in disgust. He longed to loosen his tie, to remove his coat and jacket. He suddenly felt quite overheated. And why was his brain choosing _this_ moment to remind him of his imbecilic dream from a few nights ago?

"Nothing at all," he replied. He could not tear his eyes from hers.

"I heard the department was having its party here," she remarked, looking away, suddenly seeming a bit shy. He bristled - he despised when she acted shy or delicate. It did not suit her. Come hell or high water he was going to beat it out of her before the end of term.

"I was blackmailed into attending," he explained. "I stayed as long as I could bear, and then left."

Something in her face changed as she looked up at him. The nervousness, he noted with pleasure, was gone for the moment, but there was something reproachful in the way she looked at him.

"You're such a giving person," she said dryly. "Well, don't let _me_ keep you. You've certainly got more important things to do, I'm sure." Her voice grew shrill and he watched as she turned away from him and pushed her way back towards her friends. Another redhead - not the lanky one from earlier but a shorter, more handsome one, probably a brother - was watching her return, looking eagerly at her. _She could have him,_ he observed, _and she probably doesn't know._

He finally made it out of the Three Broomsticks. In the crisp night air, he was alone on the street. It was nine o'clock-everyone was either staying inside or had already arrived at their party of choice.

 _You're such a giving person._

He was so annoyed by that phrase that he ran every single red light on the way home.


End file.
